chance to go up there. But don't ever come back!"

When the crowd began bubblingly to move toward the door, Milt prepared
to move--and bubble--with them. Though Claire's note had sounded as
though she was really a little lonely, at the tea she had said nothing
to him except, "So glad you came. Do you know Dolly Ransome? Dolly, this
is my nice Mr. Daggett. Take him and make him happy."

Dolly hadn't made him in the least happy. She had talked about tennis;
she had with some detail described her remarkable luck in beating one
Sally Saunders three sets. Now Milt was learning tennis. He was at the
present period giving two hours a week to tennis, two to dancing, two to
bridge. But he preferred cleaning oil-wells to any of these toilsome
accomplishments, and it must sadly be admitted that all the while he was
making his face bright at Dolly, he was wondering what would happen if
he interrupted Dolly's gurgling, galloping, giggling multitudinousness
by shouting, "Oh, shut up!"

When it seemed safe to go, and he tried to look as though he too were
oozing out to a Crane-Simplex, Claire slipped beside him, soft as a
shadow, and whispered, "Please don't go. I want to talk to you.
_Please!_" There was fluttering wistfulness in her voice, though
instantly it was gone as she hastened to the door and was to be heard
asserting that she did indeed love Seattle.

Milt looked out into the hall. He studied a console with a curious black
and white vase containing a single peacock feather, and a gold mirror
shimmering against a gray wall.

"Lovely stuff. I like that mirror. Like a slew in the evening. But it
isn't worth being a slave for. I'm not going to be a Mr. Riggs. Poor
devil, he's more of a servant than any of these maids. Certainly am
sorry for that poor fish. He'll have a chance to take his coat off and
sit down and smoke--when he's dead!"

The guests were gone; the Gilsons upstairs. Claire came running, seized
Milt's sleeve, coaxed him to the davenport in the drawing-room--then
sighed, and rubbed her forehead, and looked so tired that he could say
nothing but, "Hope you haven't been overdoing."

"No, just--just talking too much."

He got himself to say, "Miss Ransome--the one that's nuts about
tennis--she's darn nice."

"Is she?"

"Yes, she's--she's---- What do you hear from your father?"

"Oh, he's back at work."

"Trip do him good?"

"Oh, a lot."

"Did he----"

"Milt! Tell me about you. What are you doing? Wh